James Joyce

A BIRDLESS heaven, sea-dusk and a star

Sad in the west;

And thou, poor heart, love’s image, fond and far,

Rememberest:

Her silent eyes and her soft foam-white brow

And fragrant hair,

Falling as in the silence falleth now

Dusk from the air.

Ah, why wilt thou remember these, or why,

Poor heart, repine,

If the sweet love she yielded with a sigh

Was never thine?